Dark Tidings
by littlemewhatever93
Summary: All Hermione ever wanted out of life was knowledge. All Tom wanted out of life was power. Unfortunately for Hermione, Tom was a firm believer that knowledge and power were the very same thing. AU. Tomione. 1930s-1940s. Dark content and adult situations in future chapters. Image credited to umbridgesnapecarrow
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

 **Not sure where this came from. I've always liked the Tom/Hermione pairing but most fics I've read have some sort of time travel element to them. I wanted to try to get away from that and so here we are. This little idea wormed it's way into my brain and wouldn't shut up until I wrote it down. I'm kinda just throwing it out there to see if there is any interest. If not, I have about a million other things that I should be writing. Haha.**

 **This story is set in 1930s-1940s England. Forgive me if some of the historical facts are a little iffy.**

 **Oh, and, you know. Nothing that you recognize is mine. No money is being made. Yada yada.**

 **. ... .**

 ** _These violent delights have violent ends_**

 **-Shakespeare**

 **March 15th, 1936**

 ** _London_**

Hermione Granger was always a peculiar child. She had begun walking and talking within the first year and a half of her birth, and began learning to read by the time she reached her third birthday. To her parents, who were both academics themselves, it was a blessing. They were ecstatic that their daughter was so academically gifted, and as result made it their mission to give their daughter every opportunity that they could.

They were both dentists; they had worked at separate clinics for years before meeting, and were each successful in their own right. After they met and fell in love, they each pulled out of their individual clinics and started their own practice together. Before long, they had successfully climbed out of the desperate struggle of owning your own business and started bringing in profits. Year after year they gained more clients due to the friendly atmosphere and professionalism that they strived to attain at their practice; all this kept them successfully in the black.

As a result, they were quite wealthy, and no expense would be spared for their beloved Hermione. She was their miracle child, as they had once been told that Helen Granger was unable to carry a child to full term. Tutors were hired for Hermione, as she was still too young to begin primary school.

At first, the tutors seemed reluctant to teach a child so young. Most of them, worn down and bitter after teaching snot-nosed, arrogant brats for a majority of their adult lives, simply could not believe that a four year old child could possibly succeed in the courses they were hired to teach. French, German, Spanish and Latin. Arithmetic, Civics, basic science and English studies. However, money was money and the Granger's were willing to pay a lot of it; more, if Hermione tested up to their standards at the end of their tutelage. And so Hermione began her studies.

Where once her tutors doubted, they were soon proven wrong. Hermione took to her studies like a duck to water; in fact, one of her tutors, an old woman known to Hermione as Madame Vicksburg who was particularly tight-lipped when it came to praise, mentioned privately to Hermione's parents that it was almost like she wasn't _teaching_ Hermione at all, rather simply reminding her of information she had already known but had forgotten.

By the time Hermione reached the age where she could enter the public schooling system, her parents decided against enrolling her. She was doing very well with her private studies and they felt no need to disrupt her schedule. They were also worried what would happen if they were to enroll her amongst other children her age; they were not oblivious to how children reacted to anyone that wasn't similar to them. With Hermione's constant need to succeed academically and her tendency to spout off random knowledge, it wouldn't take much for Hermione to be considered condescending. The last thing they wanted was for their brilliant daughter to be harassed over her intelligence.

It wasn't until after her ninth birthday that Helen Granger got an inkling that there was anything special about their daughter other than her immense intelligence.

It was an unremarkable day. They were on one of their many excursions to London, and had stopped at a remote bookstore at Hermione's insistence. Apparently, the last time they had been in London, Hermione had seen it and hadn't stopped thinking of it since.

Helen had remembered their last trip; it had been for a conference for more advanced tutors for Hermione. Though Helen and Liam kept it a secret from their daughter, she was starting to become known by members of London's elite academics. Some were amazed by her test scores and by the excellent recommendations from her previous educators. Others were not so impressed. Hermione's lack of formal education was against her, and though all of her previous tutors had been certified and correctly licensed, some were calling for more strict supervision and prestigious licensing in order to prove the validity of Hermione's marks. It was important for Hermione to be present in these interviews, as whomever was selected would be spending a lot of time with Hermione. Hermione's opinion would definitely hold sway as to who would be chosen.

The trip hadn't left too much time to explore as they normally did, so Helen felt compelled to grant Hermione's request this time around. Liam was at a meeting with a supplier for their practice, so it was mother and daughter that walked down the almost deserted street that the aforementioned bookstore was on. Hermione had stopped suddenly, her brown eyes wide and her mouth open in delight.

"Mum, there it is! Isn't it magnificent?" she had asked, but Helen looked at her daughter in confusion. Where Hermione was gesturing to, she saw nothing but a broken down building that looked like it had once been a store. Now, the glass in the windows was smashed and left unrepaired, and the door was barely hanging on by its hinges. It screamed of disrepair and dangerous conditions, and Helen's first instinct was to leave, walk away with her daughter in tow and never come back.

"Hermione, I don't see anything," Helen said hesitantly. Her daughter was never one to lie, and Helen had seen the look her daughter was currently sporting a thousand times before. It wasn't a look of deceit, but of eagerness and awe at the thought of new knowledge.

"But mum, it's right there!" Hermione insisted, grabbing Helen's hand and tugging on it impatiently. As soon as their hands touched, Helen gasped. Before her eyes, the building that was once so torn down and battered became a respectable looking, with fresh paint and fine finishing. The windows were intact, and in them were some ancient looking tomes on display, beautifully bound in leather. Helen understood why her daughter had been attracted to it, but she continued to feel like she should leave, turn around and walk away. It was only Hermione's persistent pulling and chatter that made Helen enter. She held on to her daughter's hand tightly.

When they entered the store, Hermione inhaled deeply. It smelled like parchment, treated and aged over many years. It was a smell she was fond of, bringing back countless memories of good times in her life that she had been around books. Her eyes went everywhere at once, and she pulled herself free from her mother's grasp in order to explore.

Books were arranged in neat rows, but the shelves seemed impossibly high. Hermione craned her head upwards and saw that the ceiling seemed much too high compared to what it looked like outside. As if somehow there was more room than building.

Hermione soon became aware that this shop also had a very different selection than she normally browsed. Titles like _Transfiguration in Everyday Use_ and _Practical Potions, a Guide for Simple Household Mixes_ stood out in her mind, and she looked over to her mother in confusion. She saw her mother looking down at the same titles with an odd expression on her face, her skin a sickly pale color.

"Hermione, dear, I think we should go," her mother said, anxiety leaking into her voice.

"Hello," came a mysterious voice from the other side of the room. Hermione's eyes snapped to the source of the sound and found herself staring at a small woman standing some distance away from them, paging through a thick tome. The first thing Hermione noticed was the woman's strange clothing. She wore a billowing cloak that looked several sizes too large for her, and it was a periwinkle color with glittering stars at the bottom. Hermione's eyes traveled up to her face, taking in her large spectacles and frizzy hair. "Is there anything I can help you ladies with?" the woman asked, never looking up from her book.

"No, we were just -" Helen started before getting interrupted by her daughter.

"These are strange books," Hermione observed as she picked up the one titled _Accessing Your Magical Core: A Beginners Guide_. "Forgive me, madam, but is this a shop for the occult?" Hermione asked politely. While Helen seemed disgusted and uncomfortable, Hermione seemed genuinely curious, not an ounce of horror in her tone.

The woman lifted her gaze, adjusting her thick glasses on her face gaze to see them properly for the first time. Her eyes widened as she took in the mother and daughter's appearance. "Oh my," she breathed. "You lot are muggles! Muggles! Wanderin' into my shop! Told the Ministry that me wards were getting low, no one listened, of course!" she went on nervously, her voice low enough that Hermione had to strain to hear.

"Pardon me, madam," the girl spoke calmly, precisely. To Helen's surprise, the woman even stopped mumbling enough to look her daughter square in the face. "I saw this shop many weeks ago, the last time my parents and I were in London. We hadn't the time to visit then, but your displays are so beautiful," Hermione explained, her voice wistful. "My mum agreed to take me this time. I'm sorry if we disturbed you." Helen was surprised at how collected her young child could sound; she spoke eloquently and confidently. She sounded much older than her nine years, and Helen felt proud despite her uneasiness.

The strange woman hesitated, looking at Hermione closely. "Oh! I see," the woman said quietly. "Child, what is your name?"

"Hermione Granger, madam," the young girl replied with little hesitation.

"Hermione," the woman repeated. "Fine name. Yes, very lovely. Shakespeare, is it not?" she asked in a distracted sort of tone, looking very fidgety. Hermione nodded, watching the woman closely. The more Hermione stared, the more she was somehow able to physically _see_ the strangeness of the woman. It was a glow of some sorts, emanating from what must be _inside_ the woman herself. It gave her skin a sort of shimmer that Hermione was entranced by.

 _What was it?_

Helen Granger considered herself to be a woman far ahead of her time. She had a college degree and _worked_ for a living, which was simply unheard of in the year of 1936, especially since she was a married woman _and_ a mother. Her daughter had some of the finest educators in Great Britain. Though she had been raised religious, her and her husband tended to put more faith in science than anything else. Still...the books she was seeing in this store weren't scientific _or_ religious. They didn't seem to be fictional literature. They seemed to be...spellbooks. _Witchcraft._

"Hermione, dearest, let's get going. Your father-" Helen started, pulling on her daughter's arm. She was interrupted by the strange woman pulling something from her sleeve. It was a long, smooth stick and she waved it at Helen sharply. Suddenly, Helen forgot what she was worried about. She felt strangely...blurred.

"Mrs. Granger? I think the book you were looking for is just over there, in the gardening section," the woman informed Helen pleasantly, with a smile.

A look of realisation swept over Helen's face, "Oh, of course! Thank you! I'll go look!" she exclaimed before bustling off towards where the strange woman had motioned.

Hermione had watched the whole interaction, wide eyed. The strange woman had made some motion with a stick of wood and suddenly her mother, who had just been making excuses to leave, needed some book about _gardening_ of all things.

Hermione supposed she ought to feel frightened. That woman had waived her stick and her mother was somehow manipulated into doing something completely out of her nature by leaving Hermione alone with a stranger.

Hermione felt no fear. Only endless, _burning_ curiosity.

"What is your name?" is all the young girl asked.

"Isolde Bagshot, child. I'm awful sorry about your mum," the woman apologized sincerely. "You seem a bit young. Probably haven't even got your letter yet, have ye?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to, Madam Bagshot," Hermione replied, though the statement was carefully laced with a question.

"Why, your Hogwarts letter, of course!" the woman looked Hermione over carefully. "You should be getting it in the next year or so, I reckon. Until then, it would be a waste to call the Ministry blokes for this. You've got the spirit to be a powerful witch, you know. I can see the power in you," the woman went on, her voice serene.

"What is _Hogwarts?"_ Hermione asked, nose wrinkling at the strange word. The word 'witch' hadn't triggered any reaction. She _was_ in an occult shop, after all. What could she expect?

"Why, it's a school, dear. A school where young witches and wizards go to learn how to control their magic," the woman replied, as easily as if they were talking about the weather. "You, Miss Granger, are what we call a Muggleborn. A witch or wizard who is born to non-magical parents."

Hermione didn't say anything. Even as a child, Hermione prided herself on being highly logical. Everything that had come out of Isolde's mouth since their arrival was _highly_ illogical, but when Hermione categorized the evidence, she was finding that most likely this woman was speaking the truth. The fact that she had practically been forced to drag her mother past the entrance, despite her mother having already agreed to take her. Her behavior had seemed very strange, though Hermione had been too distracted at the time to really pay attention. Then there was the book selection, with all sorts of magical and other-worldly titles. Hermione had visited more libraries than she could even count and _never_ had she seen titles such as these. And then, most damnably, was the act that she had witness Isolde do to her mother.

"What exactly did you do to my mum, Madam Bagshot?" she asked lightly.

"Oh, just a mild _confundus_ , dear. Nothing damaging, I promise. I'd never take advantage of a muggle, poor things," she waved her hand distractedly. "Your mum can't know anything about the magical world until Hogwarts contacts you. Strictly speaking, neither can you, but you look like you can keep a secret, can't you dear?" Hermione nodded quickly and the woman winked. "That's a good girl. It's a shame they wait so long to notify muggleborns. Something special about you, though, dearie. Come, come, I've got some books."

Predictably, and also perhaps foolishly, the promise of books and the knowledge that lie within them had Hermione following the woman without further question. The woman grabbed books along the way, humming to herself. Hermione followed silently, questions burning inside of her that she had to force to keep silent. Books were on the line, after all. And Hermione had the feeling that _these_ books in particular were a once in a lifetime chance.

"There we go, that should be a good start," the woman said suddenly, stopping at an oddly placed table to deposit her selection. Hermione's eyes widened at the titles. _Achievements in Charming, Charms of Defense and Deterrence, Dark Arts Defense: Basics for Beginners, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, A History of Magic_...the titles were amazing. Hermione stopped at the last one.

" _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot," Hermione repeated, looking up at Isolde. "Is she your relation?" she asked curiously.

"Ah, yes. My grandmother's sister. Widely accomplished historian. Mind you, she's lived through most of it," Isolde replied distractedly. Hermione took the knowledge in silently, watching as the woman pulled out her long stick once more and waved it at the books.

"What is that?" Hermione questioned, pointing at the stick.

"A wand, dearie. You'll get one once you receive your letter. Ollivanders is where you'll get yours, I suspect," she spoke with a smile. "Here you go, dearie. I've charmed these so that they'll look like normal, muggle books. To your parents, mind you. A witch or wizard will be able to see them as they are."

"Fascinating. Magic can do that?"

" _Magic_ , my dear," the woman smiled, looking over her glasses at Hermione, "can do anything."

"Now, take these books and grab your mum, dear. She'll be a little dazed, but once she's back onto the street she'll be fine," the woman explained.

"But don't you need payment? I have my purse-"

"Oh, none of that, none of that, dear. It's a pleasure. Feel free to return if you happen upon my shop. Next time perhaps without your parents, no offense, dear. Ministry would love to slap down some fines if they knew I allowed Muggles to walk about my shop," the woman offered.

"Yes, Madam," Hermione nodded enthusiastically. "Thank you so much."

"Mmm. Run along now, love. I've got to sort new inventory," she waved her off disinterestedly.

Hermione gathered her mother and left, acutely aware of the weight in her bag that hadn't been there moments prior.

 **. ... .**

 **September 22nd, 1936**

 ** _London_**

Over the next six months, Hermione managed to return back to the store a handful of times. She devoured the books with a vicious intensity and made a point to visit the shop every visit to London. A whole new _world_ had been opened up to her, one that only her fiction books had hinted towards.

It wasn't as difficult to hide the books from her parents as she had thought it would be. The whole country seemed to be distracted; Hermione knew that a war was looming with it's origins in Germany. Her parents tried to spare her from the worst of it but Hermione was an intelligent girl and had heard about Adolf Hitler, who called himself _Führer_ of Germany. Her parents thought he was a dangerous fanatic and Hermione was inclined to believe them. There were whispers of something called _concentration camps_ , where people were forced to live and work in horrible conditions. Of course, no one really knew the truth, since there was a lack of media presence in the country.

At the present moment, she was sitting on the steps of an old orphanage in a rather seedy part of London, one of the aforementioned books open in her lap. Her parents, ever the ones for charity, had offered to visit this orphanage and give all the kid's teeth a cleaning. Her parents often brought her along for visits such as these; they said it was so that she could see how other kids had to live, and how blessed she was for her station. Hermione understood the significance of it, but most times she found the odor of the places agitated her nose. They smelled of filth and general abandonment, as if no one had given the halls a decent scrub down in recent memory.

So she sat outside, nose deep in her book titled _Advanced Rune Translation_ , one of the books she had picked up during her most recent visit. Isolde had said it might be too difficult for her but Hermione found it positively enchanting. It was so interesting that Hermione was not aware that perhaps the most significant moment of her life was about to occur.

"What kind of book is that?" a voice interrupted her reading.

Hermione raised her gaze and came face to face with a boy who couldn't be older than she was. He was a rather handsome boy with dark brown hair and clear, large blue eyes. He was dressed in shabby clothes, patches obviously visible on the knees of his trousers. He wore a coat two times too large for him and it was dirty and shabby, like it hadn't been washed since he owned it.

"Wh-What do you mean?" Hermione asked cautiously, unsure how to respond. She knew that Isolde had charmed the books to look differently to muggles and had been confident in her spellwork; no one had ever mentioned them before.

"Advanced Rune Translation?" the boy asked, eyebrows raising. "Is that one of those loony people books?" he asked, condescendingly. Despite how handsome he had been moments before, his sneer made him look ugly.

"You can read the title?" Hermione asked, ignoring his rude tone. She realized that this boy was a wizard, just as sure as she was a witch. Excitement corsed through her.

"Of course I can _read_ the title. I'm not stupid, you know," he sneered.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry!" Hermione quickly interjected, horrified by his assumption. Of course, being raised in an orphanage meant he hadn't the same opportunities as her but to think that he was under the assumption that she thought he couldn't read! "That's not what I meant at all! I was just surprised that you could see them for what they really are. Muggles see a medical science journal, you know."

The boy looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You really are a nutter, aren't you?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes right back at him, "If I'm a nutter, why are you still here?" she shot back. "Don't you have better things to do than talk to some barmy girl on the steps of your home? Why don't you go bugger off?"

The boy looked surprised, his eyes widening. He paused for a moment before seeming to look more closely at her. Finally, he spoke, "So...what are Muggles?" he asked, picking up on the strange word first.

Hermione hesitated, not sure whether or not to trust the boy. He seemed like he was a brat. However, he was the only other magic person she had met beside Isolde. She couldn't contain her enthusiasm.

"Do you have anywhere we can go that's private?" she asked quietly. "Somewhere close but so that no one will overhear us. Muggles aren't supposed to know about magic."

The boy's eyes flickered at the word _magic_. "Here, come on," he motioned, heading around towards the back of the building. There was a gated area in the back that looked like it had fallen into disrepair, perhaps it had once been a backyard for the orphanage. Now it looked more like a junkyard with pieces of scrap metal lounging about haphazardly.

That's where Hermione sat down, carefully spreading her skirts about her to keep her skin from touching the dying grass. The boy lounged more carelessly, looking much more relaxed than Hermione.

"What is your name?" Hermione asked.

"It's Tom," he responded gruffly.

"I'm Hermione," she told him with a smile.

When he didn't respond, she began to tell him all she knew about the wizarding world. She told him all about magic, how a witch or wizard used a wand to cast spells and charms. She told him about the magical creatures that prowled about, unseen in the muggle world. She had just begun to explain Hogwarts when Tom interrupted her for the first time.

"A magical school?" he asked, eyebrows perking up.

Hermione nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! It's a place that children go to learn how to use our magic. There are four Houses that you can be sorted into; Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. There's apparently a test that you go through when you arrive that sorts you based on your strongest personality traits. The book is very vague on how that process happens, though," Hermione trailed off.

"But how do you get in?" Tom asked eagerly.

"You just have to be magic," Hermione informed, enjoying the fact that she was able to share her knowledge. "Apparently, on your eleventh birthday, a representative from the school will visit you and offer you a place. You have to promise to act surprised," Hermione insisted, "You're not supposed to know any of this."

"How do you know about it, then?" Tom asked.

"I met a witch in town," Hermione informed. "She owns a bookshop. My mum and I went in one day, although I found out that my mother couldn't see what it really looked like until she went inside. It's got an anti-Muggle ward around it," Hermione told him, enjoying that look of fascination that rested on Tom's face. "She broke the rules and gave me these," she told him, opening her bag.

The bag carried much more than should be possible. Isolde had made it for her when she had realized how voracious a reader the young girl was. She was able to take more books at a time, something that Hermione had thanked the older witch for enthusiastically.

Tom marvelled at the books and reached for one, but just before he touched the spine of one, he pulled back, a dark look crossing his face. Hermione frowned, a wave of intuition crashing over her. Tom lived in an orphanage. She doubted he owned many personal items. Though he obviously knew how to read, she doubted that he owned any books of his own.

"You know, I have too many," Hermione said lightly, trying not to be too obvious. She knew that boys could be rather silly about their pride, especially when the person that might be doing the offending was a girl. Her mother had had many conversations with her about how women like them were ahead of their time, but in order to be successful they had to learn how to manipulate the men around them. "There are a couple I've read hundreds of times. I have them memorized by now," she went on, trying her best to keep her voice disinterested. She looked at Tom, who was staring at her intently. "Would you like to have some?" she offered quietly.

Immediately, Tom narrowed his eyes and looked at her distrustfully. "What do you want for them?" he asked, his voice low.

Hermione's eyes widened, "Oh no, nothing! I don't want anything, I swear," she was quick to say. "I just figured, well, since I have so many, I should give some to you. You _are_ a wizard, after all."

"I don't need your pity," he ground out, quickly rising to his feet. "You're just some rich bint with a nutty head," he threw at her, his face going red. He went to turn away. Hermione could almost feel the shame radiating off him.

"Wait!" Hermione quickly stood, reaching for his hand. As soon as her small hand came into contact with his slightly larger one, the boy stilled. He didn't turn around and she couldn't see his face, but the fact that he had stopped was a good sign and Hermione went with it. "I don't pity you, Tom," she said quickly. "You're the first person I met that was like me. I know that we have different backgrounds but...I don't much care about that. You seem intelligent. And it's wasteful for me to horde books I have when I've already read them," she trailed off. The boy didn't move to turn around or continue walking, he just stood there, his hand entwined by hers. Hermione continued hesitantly, "I didn't even pay for the books, Tom. She just _gave_ them to me. Why shouldn't I give them to you?"

Her last words seemed to trigger something in the boy and he turned to look at her, "So you'll just give them to me, just like that? No questions asked?" he repeated.

Hermione nodded emphatically, slowly pulling on his hand. Surprisingly, he didn't struggle against her and she led him back to the area that her bag was resting. She began to pull a couple out of her bag, mostly the ones that Isolde had given her during her very first visit. She handed the half dozen or so over to the boy, who took them reverently.

"You don't have to do this," was all the boy said. Hermione interpreted it as his way to say thank you. She smiled at him.

"I know."

The boy blinked at her, eyebrows furrowing. He stood again. "We should get you back. You've stained your dress," Tom pointed out. "Mummy and Daddy are probably worried sick."

"I suppose," Hermione breathed, pulling herself up. She looked down at her skirts and saw that indeed, there was a rather large green stain on the fabric. She looked back up to Tom. "You want to see if we can magic it away?" Hermione asked with a grin, feeling mischievous.

"Don't we need a wand?" Tom asked lazily, raising a single eyebrow.

"Most of the time, yes. But a wand just _focuses_ our magic. It's still there, even without a wand. Come on, let's just _try,_ " she insisted. She grabbed his hand, holding it tightly in her own. He made a show of trying to pull away this time but Hermione only clasped harder. "Now, close your eyes," she ordered softly, closing her own. "Try to concentrate on your magic, focus it on making the stain disappear," she went on.

"What if I don't _care_ about your stupid stain?" he retorted.

Hermione cracked an eye reproachfully. Despite his careless tone, his eyes were closed, much to Hermione's delight. She closed her eyes again, feeling herself grin. "Well, you _should_ care about the stain. How else are you going to make it go away? Now focus."

She concentrated on her magic, and soon enough she felt it. It was a reservoir of light in her stomach, and she could feel strands of power spreading from it all throughout her body, from her fingertips and all the way to the ends of her hair. "Do you feel it?" she asked.

"Yes," the boy said quietly. Suddenly, he pulled on Hermione's hand yanked her towards him. Hermione's eyes flew open and she found herself in extremely close proximity to the young boy. He was staring at her heatedly, eyes wide and pupil's dilated. Both were silent for a moment and Hermione felt a blush rise to her face.

She had never had much interaction with children her own age. What experience she did have, it certainly wasn't with _boys_. Her parents were firm believers in the separation of the sexes, so any friends that she might have had were definitely other girls. Hermione hadn't really thought about Tom's gender until this moment, much too excited about finding another person who could do magic, but it was very much apparent now. Especially when said boy was inches away from her face.

"I can feel your magic, Hermione," he said softly, and Hermione felt his breath on her face. "It's very pure. Very light. Would you like to feel mine?" he asked, and Hermione found herself wondering how it was possible for someone to have such crystal blue eyes. They stood in contrast to his very dark hair and lightly tanned skin, and Hermione couldn't help but stare into them, speechless.

Unsure of her voice, she simply nodded, closing her eyes.

A sensation similar to pins and needles spread up her arm and Hermione gasped. The numb feeling soon changed to heat that quickly surged through her. It was like the time that Hermione had held her hand above a candle for just a second too long, and her skin had tingled in a way that danced the line between pleasant and painful.

Hermione wasn't sure if she liked it.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the sensation changed again. The edge of pain dissolved into something strange and unknown. The heat was still there but instead of pain it was a kind of spark that latched on and ignited her nerves. Hermione gasped again, her eyes flying open. Tom was staring back at her, a twisted smirk on his face. Hermione ripped her hand away.

She desperately tried to ignore the strange, throbbing sensation that flared between her legs.

Hermione threw herself away from the strange, _wicked_ boy that she had just spent her entire afternoon with. She didn't know what Tom had done to her, but it was _nothing_ good. She reached down and grabbed her bag, holding it close to her chest as she ran away, through the clutter and over the fence that they had climbed over on the way in. She scrapped her hose on the way over and she saw a hint of blood, but that didn't slow her down. She made her way around to the front of the building, where her parents were just walking out the front door.

"Hermione, dear, what happened? You're filthy!" her mother cried upon the sight of her ruined dress.

"Are you hurt, sweetheart?" Liam asked, his eyes flying to the scrape on her leg.

"I'm okay, mum, dad," she said, nodding to each of them. "I just-I was just exploring. There's some of London's oldest architecture in this community, did you know?" she asked, slipping into her voice she normally used with her professors.

"Oh, sweetheart. Come, let's get you in the car," her father took her shoulder and ushered her to the automobile.

Hermione followed, trying to ignore how her legs trembled as she walked. They were safely inside the car when Hermione saw Tom through the front windshield. He stood off to the side of the building, slightly hidden by the corner Hermione had flown around so hastily only moments prior.

He stood with his arms wrapped around the books she had given him, his face an unreadable mask. Hermione stared as they reversed into the road, unable to tear her eyes away from the boy. Noticing her stare, he smiled and lifted his hand in a wave.

Hermione looked down at the grass stain on her dress, unable to fight the blush that made her face flame.

 **. ... .**

 **What did you guys think?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

 **First off, wow! You guys are awesome when it comes to reviews. Seriously. I was in the process of moving out of state or this chapter would have been posted much more quickly than it was. I'm still not sure if I'm going to continue this story into a full length fic, mostly because it intimidates me. I have a feeling that if I do choose to continue after this, this fic will turn into an epic-lengthed monstrosity. But we shall see. (:**

 **Shout out to my lovelyreviewers:** _ **Apsincandescence**_ **,** _ **JuliSt**_ **,** _ **Guest**_ **,** _ **Amea**_ **,** _ **ChristineRose**_ **,** _ **Guest**_ **,** _ **Lugia'sChallenger13**_ **,** _ **kabg01**_ **,** _ **valiente.s**_ **,** _ **XxAngry-Evil-PoptartsxX**_ **,** _ **Helen**_ **,** _ **Guest**_ **,** _ **Jenna**_ **,** _ **pure1ruby**_ **,** _ **Helena**_ **,** _ **Karol**_ **,** _ **Franny**_ **,** _ **MarchesaLace**_ **, and** _ **thfourteenth**_ **. I hope at least some of your questions will be answered in this chapter.**

 **. ... .**

 ** _And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee._**

 **-Nietzsche**

 **February 24th, 1934**

 ** _London_**

Amelia Cole liked to think that she had wholeheartedly dedicated her life to helping children. When her mother died when Amelia was only fourteen, she worked her fingers to the bone to help her father support her and her four younger siblings. When the youngest finally moved out on his own, Amelia married a much older gentleman, a widower, and took care of his two children. When her husband died, she found work at a local orphanage.

She watched after the poor, motherless children there with a firm hand tempered only by compassion, and she liked to think that _her_ orphanage, despite lack of funds, was one of the best in London. Her children all had shoes on their feet, all knew their letters, and always had at least two meals a day. It might not seem like much but Mrs. Cole knew that other orphanages let their children run around like common street urchins, dirty and downtrodden, stealing from and harassing honest men and women. That would certainly not be allowed at _her_ institution.

Amelia Cole had never met a child she disliked. Children, by their mere natures, were the epitome of innocence. She was a firm believer that everything that was good in the human race could be found in the heart of a child.

Perhaps that was why Tom Riddle unnerved her so. He had been born in this orphanage on New Year's Eve eight years ago and with every passing year he became...stranger. At first, Amelia had nothing but sympathy for the young child. His mother had died in this very building shortly after his birth and his father wasn't able to be located, not for lack of trying.

As an infant, he rarely cried. Instead he watched the world around him with eyes that were much older than his body. At the time, Amelia had thought him to be just an observant babe. In later years, her perception changed and instead of a sweet, curious babe looking in wonder at the world, she remembered a dark boy already displeased with the lot life gave him.

He started walking and talking at an extraordinarily young age but he was certainly aware of his surroundings long before then. Amelia had noticed several times the way his eyes would follow her around the room that the other toddlers lived, watching as she interacted with the other children. Unlike the other toddlers, Tom rarely smiled or laughed. Instead, he seemed to have a permanent neutral expression, though by this time Amelia had started to become aware of the odd flashes of darkness in his eyes.

It wasn't until after his seventh birthday that Amelia Cole started to get an inkling as to how deep that darkness went.

None of the other children seemed to like Tom. He was rather ostracized as a young boy. Amelia knew that children could be cruel, especially children in the situation her's found themselves in. They tended to make their own sort of hierarchy and Tom, friendless as he was, found himself towards the bottom of the chain.

It was about a week after she had found Tom with a busted lip that she heard a god-awful scream coming from the dormitories. Amelia hurried in that direction, worried that Billy Stubbs and his gang were picking another fight with Tom. The last thing she wanted to do was have to call a doctor out.

She threw open the door hurriedly, but what she saw was not what she expected. There was a group of children gathered around Tom but instead of them throwing insults or fists, they were all crying and looking opened-mouthed at the ceiling. Tom stood before them with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Amelia followed the children's line of sight, raising her head to look upwards. Her eyes widened as she registered what she was seeing, horror filling her. Last year, Billy Stubbs had procured enough funds running papers to purchase himself a rabbit. Normally there were no pets allowed at the orphanage but Amelia had made an exception; she thought that it would teach the children how to care for something less fortunate than they were. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now though, with the poor creature hung up from the rafters with a noose around it's neck, she wasn't so sure.

Her eyes fell from the roof, landing upon Tom Riddle. He met her stare with a blank one of his own, the odd smirk on his face never wavering. Amelia knew that he couldn't have possibly have done this; those rafters had to be about twenty feet off the ground. There was no possible way. Still, Amelia couldn't help the cold chill that ran up her spine.

After the incident with Billy Stubbs' rabbit, Tom noted that Mrs. Cole watched him much more carefully. Tom knew that she suspected that he had something to do with it but there would never be any proof. There would never be any proof because Tom was able to do things that normal children couldn't do.

It had started when he was very young. His first memory was being in his crib and making a toy that he had wanted to play with rise off the ground, into the air, and float over to him. There hadn't been any conscious thought proceeding it; he had wanted the bloody toy, and it made itself available to him. Tom had been too young to really comprehend what he had done. It wasn't until he was a bit older that things became clear.

He was different. _Special_.

He could move things without touching them, simply with the force of his mind. He couldn't practice often, living in an orphanage where privacy was simply unheard of. There were other things that he could do, though. Just after his eighth birthday, Joanne Miller had made fun of the fact that he didn't talk like the rest of the orphans; for some reason most of them spoke brummie despite the fact that they lived in London. It sounded uneducated and stupid and Tom refused to allow his voice to even entertain the sound. It was synonymous with street urchins and if there was one thing Tom Riddle wasn't it was _trash_. Anyhow, Joanne Miller had taken to mimicking Tom's carefully practiced, posh accent and was proceeding to make a show of it. Most of the younger orphans were outside due to it being their scheduled 'play' time, where that wretched Mrs. Cole booted them out into the street to 'burn off energy'.

Joanne had gathered a rather impressed looking crowd, all of them snickering and looking over their shoulders at Tom, gleeful with his embarrassment. Tom had been enraged; how _dare_ this dirty, stupid-sounding bint make fun of him, humiliate him? _No one_ humiliated Tom Riddle, he decided right there and then. Anyone who tried would _pay_.

There had been a stray dog up the road, pilfering through some overturned rubbish bins in the street. Tom couldn't tell what kind of dog it was as it's fur was dangerously matted and unkempt, but it was large. All he could think was that he wished the dog would decide that Joanne Miller was a much better meal than that garbage. He wanted it to _attack_ the horrid cow. Wanted to see her scream as the dog's teeth tore through her flesh.

He wanted her blood to line the cobbles of the street.

Tom watched as the dog's head lifted out of the rubbish and he could have _sworn_ it made eye contact with him. Before he could even think, the dog's muzzle pulled back, exposing its elongated and yellow teeth before it _lunged_ in the orphans' direction. Screams reached his ears as the other orphans noticed the menacing canine's approach, but they need not have worried. The dog had eyes only for Joanne, jumping up and latching onto the girl's forearm with it's mouth. Tom smiled as her cries reached his ears, the dog pulling on the girl's arm until she was dragged to the ground. Then it went for her face.

Eventually Mrs. Cole had come out of the doors of the orphanage with a cricket bat, whacking the miserable creature with it in an attempt to get it off Joanne. The wicked beast yelped at the pain but it's focus was singular; it wanted to kill the girl. It didn't even attempt to bite Mrs. Cole as she whacked at it. The commotion had attracted the attention of a nearby patrol officer and he came running, grabbing a fistful of the dog's matted hair and ripping it away from the child. He ended the beast's existence with a powerful blow to the head with his baton.

Tom watched the scene from the orphanage steps, where the orphans had ran and waited once Mrs. Cole showed up. He couldn't keep the gleeful smile off his face as he watched the officer and Mrs. Cole panic over the state of Joanne. The girl was unconscious and bloodied. With the officer's help, Mrs. Cole carried Joanne inside, presumably to call the doctor.

Strangely enough, Joanne never made fun of Tom again. Of course, she couldn't know that _he_ had been the one to make the dog attack her, but she had definitely seemed more skittish around him after that. She was also permanently disfigured; the dog had ripped open the side of her face and she now had one long, thick scar that passed vertically down her left cheek.

 _Just as well_ , Tom had thought the first time he had seen her after the accident. Her mental and physical scars would serve her well as a reminder; Tom Riddle was not to be crossed.

There were more odd occurrences over the years. He found that he could manipulate almost any type of animal to do his bidding; rats, cats, dogs and mice. Snakes, though, _they_ were different. Not only could he control snakes but he could _talk_ to them. He'd found out one day when a garden snake had come up to say hello while he was hanging out alone behind the orphanage. He'd nearly fallen out of the tree he had been climbing in shock.

His abilities kept him going through the years he spent in the hellhole he called home. The other orphans seemed to fear him now, and he had not been teased in many months. He took pleasure in the shadows that crossed their face when he spoke. Even Mrs. Cole seemed antsy and nervous around him. Of course she was, how could she not be?

Tom Riddle was different. Special. _Better_. He almost pitied the next fool who was stupid enough to need a demonstration.

 **. ... .**

 **September 22nd, 1936**

 ** _London_**

The day that Tom Riddle met Hermione Granger had been an irritating one. A high class couple was visiting the orphanage that day, spreading their pity disguised as 'charity' about as they offered to clean the _poor_ orphans' teeth. Mrs. Cole had known about their visit a week beforehand and as a result, she set about having the children do an immeasurable amount of stupid tasks. Tom hated when rich people came to the orphanage because Mrs. Cole would lose her mind, bossing them all about like a bunch of slaves. Tom had been forced to sweep the _street_ the night before because it looked too 'filthy'.

Honestly.

Tom was hanging about outside the orphanage, hoping to avoid the matron's presence. He didn't want to see the doctors with their strange tools and sharp hooks. He took very good care of his teeth. There was no need.

He had noticed the girl sitting upon the steps to the orphanage quite a bit earlier, watching her closely. She was dressed in clothes that probably costed more money than he had ever seen. It was a cute, light blue dress with the silly frills that girls seemed to like so much, paired with white stockings that led to delicate looking shoes that shined with obvious care. Her dark hair was much less refined, he noted. Wild and curly, almost bushy, and blowing in the breeze, kept out of her eyes by two strategically placed clips.

Tom was more interested in the book she was currently nose deep in, sprawled open on her lap. She was completely focused on it, oblivious to the world around her as her lips moved while she read. Her eyebrows were pulled together in deep concentration. The book certainly _looked_ interesting, he would give her that. It was bound in a leather-like material and it's pages were thick and solid looking, unlike the books that the orphanage owned where the pages ripped almost every time he turned a page.

He stepped closer to the girl, trying to get a look at the title. It was obstructed by the folds of her dress and he couldn't quite see. Despite the fact that the girl was unaware of his presence, Tom found himself annoyed. Why couldn't she just shift a little so he could see it? He glared at her.

When it became apparent that this girl would not notice his gaze lingering on her, he lowered himself to actually speak.

"What kind of book is that?" he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral and lacking the annoyance he felt at her obliviousness.

The girl jumped, confirming that she _had_ been unaware of him and not just choosing to ignore his presence. It made him feel better. He _refused_ to be ignored.

The girl quickly drew the book to her chest, a protective gesture, Tom noted, looking at Tom in surprise. He watched her quick, silent assessment of him with a practiced neutral face.

"Wh-What do you mean?" the girl stammered in response. She seemed nervous, something Tom enjoyed. Her movements had left the book's title on display and Tom read it, eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Advanced Rune Translation?" he read, confused. How odd. Rune translation? What were runes? "Is that one of those loony people books?" he asked, sneering. He had thought that someone as rich as she would would be reading something _interesting_.

"You can read the title?" she asked, sounding amazed. Tom's hackles rose.

"Of course I can _read_ the title. I'm not stupid, you know," he snapped. In his head, he was calculating just how badly he could hurt her without drawing suspicion to himself. Maiming orphans was one thing but he couldn't go around disfiguring rich bints. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown into the clink. He heard that gaolers were notoriously underpaid and children that ended up there were most often sold into the underground.

The girl's eyes widened in surprise and a blush rose to her cheeks. It was kind of pretty, Tom decided. The girl's skin was pale and unblemished, a sign of high society, and the pink flush accentuated her cheekbones nicely, Tom thought. "Oh no, I'm sorry!" she cried, sincerity apparent in her voice. Tom's violent urges pulled back slightly. He liked people apologizing to him. "That's not what I meant at all! I was just surprised that you could see them for what they really are. Muggles see a medical science journal, you know," she went on to say.

Tom blinked at the girl. He was good at telling when people were lying and she didn't appear to be so maybe she was just loose in the head. She obviously wasn't making any sense.

"You really are a nutter, aren't you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. This girl was a waste of time. He should just take her book as a lesson to not spout off nonsense.

Tom had obviously pushed a button. Her back straightened with some sort of steel and she narrowed her own eyes at him. They were brown, Tom noted, but rather pretty. Not dark like shit, but light and energetic. Like the colour of a caramel candy he had once had. "If I'm a nutter than why are you still here?" she demanded, her voice harsh and unwavering. "Don't you have better things to do than talk to some barmy girl on the steps of your home? Why don't you go bugger off?" she snapped.

Tom was surprised. He hadn't expected a rich girl to use crass language. There was something else, though. He had felt it in the air when she snapped off on him; a sort of electricity that hovered through the air that he had come to associate with his powers. Only, he had not done anything. As odd as it was to think, the thought that _she_ had caused the energy crossed his mind. Now that he looked closer, there was a...shimmering sort of quality about her. It was odd, almost like he could see it with one eye and not the other.

He hesitated. Though he could care less if the girl felt insulted, he had a strange feeling that he needed to know what she was talking about. He tried a different tactic, changing his demeanor to that of a sheepish, scolded child.

"So...what are muggles?" he asked, a curious tilt to his voice.

The girl hesitated only a moment before she spoke, considering him. "Do you have anywhere we can go that's private?" she asked, and Tom was surprised. No one ever wanted to be alone with him, and for good reason. "Somewhere close but so that no one can overhear us. Muggles aren't supposed to know about magic."

 _Magic_? Tom's skin prickled. Is that what he could do? Was that what his powers were? Magic? Could she do it, too? Tom assumed that all these questions were the reason she wanted to speak in private. Tom looked over his shoulder before turning back to her. "Here, come on," he said, nodding in the direction of the back yard.

The girl followed silently and Tom felt pleasure in the fact that there was no hesitation in her steps; she followed willingly. He led her around the building and saw her blanch at the sight of the metal fencing. He offered her a hand to step on and the girl smiled, thanking him. He assisted her over the top of it, smirking at how obviously uncoordinated she was.

Once they maneuvered through the wreckage of the backyard, the girl positioned her skirts, taking a seat on the grass. Tom followed suit, lounging in a relaxed manner.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"It's Tom," her replied, feeling stiff.

"I'm Hermione," the girl responded, smiling.

Tom didn't respond, looking at the girl expectantly. Hermione picked up on his cues and began to speak. Tom listened intently, marveling at the girl's words. She spoke of magical creatures and fantastical spells and enchantments. Tom was rather good at telling whether or not someone was lying and this girl wasn't showing any of the signs. She maintained eye contact with him and spoke clearly and without pause.

"I haven't even told you the best part!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening with excitement and her arms flailing wildly. Tom had to resist the urge to roll his eyes but he also found himself rather amused. If he had to pick a word to describe Hermione, it would definitely be _exuberant_. "There is a school that witches and wizards attend after they turn eleven. It's similar to a muggle boarding school in that you live there during the school year. They have the most fantastic courses, Tom. Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Defense Against the Dark Arts-it's honestly wonderful! It's called Hogwarts."

"A magical school?" Tom repeated, his ears perking up. That _did_ sound wonderful. He could learn how to control his powers even more and wouldn't have to live in this ruddy orphanage anymore.

Hermione nodded, smiling widely, "Yes! It's a place that children go to learn how to use our magic. There are four Houses that you can be sorted into; Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. There's apparently a test that you go through when you arrive that sorts you based on your strongest personality traits. The book is very vague on how that process happens, though," she trailed off, her eyebrows growing together in annoyance. Tom had a feeling that, like himself, this girl didn't like when she didn't know the specifics of things.

"But how do you get in?" was what he _really_ wanted to know. If there was some sort of test, he was sure that he could pass it. But if it came down to money, well... He narrowed his eyes at Hermione reproachfully. _She_ wouldn't have to worry about if it costed money. Stupid, rich cow.

"You just have to be magic," Hermione informed, "Apparently, on your eleventh birthday, a representative from the school will visit you and offer you a place. You have to _promise_ to act surprised. You're not supposed to know any of this."

"How do you know about it, then?" he asked, looking carefully at the young witch. She sure seemed to possess a lot of knowledge. More than that though, she seemed willing to give it away freely. That was odd to Tom; the way he had grown up, knowledge was almost like a form of currency. It was never given without a cost.

"I met a witch in town," Hermione told him nonchalantly, "She owns a bookshop. My mum and I went in one day, although I found out my mum couldn't see what it really looked like until she was inside. It's got an Anti-Muggle ward around it. She broke the rules and gave me these," Hermione told him excitedly before she opened the bag she carried, showing him it's contents.

Tom's eyes widened in awe at the first bit of real magic he had seen other than his own. The bag had more inside it than it should possibly be able to carry; at least twenty books. They all had fantastical titles as well, like the subjects Hermione had told him that Hogwarts had available. Out of instinct, he reached for one, longing to touch the pages of books that contained such powerful knowledge.

Just before his fingertips brushed the spine of one, dark thoughts overcame him and a shadow crossed his face. These were not his to touch. They belonged to _Hermione_. Hermione, who he realized was doing nothing this whole time other than rub her status in his nose. _Sure Tom, you might be able to go to the same school as me in a couple years, but_ I'm _the one with the knowledge._ I'm _the one with a witch-friend that lets me have books and magicks my bag._ I'm _the one that's better_. Tom felt the familiar rush of rage course through his veins. He should just _take_ the stupid books. How could _she_ stop him?

"You know," the girl's voice broke through his dark thoughts. Tom's ears perked up at her tone. It was sly, disinterested but so much so that it was clear she was obviously _very_ interested, "I have too many. There are a couple I've read hundreds of times. I have them memorized by now," she trailed off, casting a sideways look at him. "Would you like to have some?" she offered quietly, biting her bottom lip nervously.

Tom's eyes widened. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been _that_. She was offering to _give_ him the books? Tom narrowed his eyes, looking balefully at the girl. "What do you want for them?" he asked, his voice monotone. Obviously, she wanted something. _Nothing_ was free, Tom knew that very well.

"Oh no, nothing! I don't want anything, I swear," she said quickly, and Tom was surprised to see that she looked truly horrified to think that he thought she expected something from him. "I just figured, well, since I have so many, I should give some to you. You _are_ a wizard, after all."

There it was. Honestly, Tom probably should have seen this coming. After all, her parents were the bloody people parading around his orphanage rubbing their wealth in the poor little orphans' faces. "I don't need your pity," he ground out, quickly rising to his feet. "You're just some rich bint with a nutty head." Insulting her felt good. He wanted the books but he didn't want someone's _charity_. God, why did she have to say that? He was going to take the books anyway but he couldn't very well do that _now_ , could he? Disgusted, he turned away to walk back to the orphanage.

"Wait!" the cry reached his ears the same moment that a small, warm hand came into contact with his own. Tom froze. She was touching him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him because they _wanted_ to. "I don't pity you, Tom," she said, her voice sincere despite the fact that he was turned away and couldn't see her face. "You're the first person I've met that is like me. I know that we have different backgrounds but...I don't much care about that. You seem intelligent. And it's wasteful for me to horde books I have when I've already read them." Again with the charity. But there was something else there, too. She was seeking some sort of camaraderie. Some sort of connection she didn't have with anyone else. "I didn't even pay for the books, Tom. She just _gave_ them to me. Why shouldn't I give them to you?" Hermione asked, once again breaking through his thoughts.

He might be able to work with that.

"So you'll just give them to me, just like that? No questions asked?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

The girl beamed, her whole face lighting up with a smile. She nodded excitedly before pulling on his hand, leading him back to the area where her bag was resting. Normally he would never allow someone to take such liberties with his person, but she amused him with her antics. She sat down next to her bag and began to go through her books. Perhaps she saw them as friends now? That could be useful.

Hermione began pulling books out of her bag, placing them in her lap in a rapidly growing pile. As he read the titles, Tom felt a growing excitement in his chest. Achievements in Charming, Charms of Defense and Deterrence, Dark Arts Defense: Basics for Beginners, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration...Tom almost couldn't believe his eyes. When she had been talking earlier, it had all sounded too good to be true. He had entertained it because of his own experiences; he knew he was different than the other children here. But if this girl was to be believed, there were other people like him. He was a wizard.

The girl offered him the pile and he took them, having to resist the urge to rip them out of her arms before she could change her mind. As soon as the books came into contact with his skin he was able to feel a warm undercurrent in his palms, a zap of static. He looked down at the books in his arms, wide eyed.

A moment passed and Tom became aware of the silence that had fallen between them. For some reason, he felt compelled to say something but words didn't come. This girl, Hermione, had just shown up on his doorstep and opened his eyes to a whole different world. Obviously, it was still rather fantastical and difficult to believe, but she had given him proof right before his eyes. It was amazing but made him feel off-kilter. What did she _want_? What was her angle? Tom didn't know and that made him distrustful.

"You don't have to do this," he told her quietly, looking up from his lap to her.

She merely smiled. "I know," was all she said. Tom furrowed his eyebrows, looking strangely at the girl. Again, she didn't seem to be lying or expectant. Honestly, she was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. She seemed so genuine. Very odd.

"We should get you back," he said after a moment's hesitation, beginning to stand. "You've stained your dress. Mummy and Daddy are probably worried sick," he informed, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I suppose," the girl sighed, pulling herself up. Tom was surprised to hear that she actually sounded reluctant, as if she was actually enjoying her time with him. "You want to see if we can magic it away?" Hermione asked with a grin, breaking through his thoughts.

"Don't we need a wand?" Tom asked blandly, remembering the nonstop chattering she had gone on with earlier when explaining magic.

"Most of the time, yes. But a wand just _focuses_ our magic. It's still there, even without a wand. Come on, let's just _try_ ," she insisted. She grabbed his hand, holding it tightly in her own. Tom was once again surprised that she touched him willingly and made a show of trying to pull his hand away from her. "Now, close your eyes," she ordered softly, closing her own while squeezing his hand more firmly. "Try to concentrate on your magic, focus it on making the stain disappear," she went on.

Tom was quiet for a couple of moments, observing her. Though her eyes were closed, there was a look of extreme concentration on her face. Her bottom lip was tucked under her two slightly too large front teeth and a small crease had formed between her eyebrows.

"What if I don't _care_ about your stupid stain?" Tom asked, bratty on purpose. Still, he found himself closing his eyes as he spoke. He found himself wondering if he could make all her skirts disappear instead of just the stain. He grinned with the thought. She would have one hell of a time explaining _that_ to mummy and daddy.

"Well, you _should_ care about the stain. How else are you going to make it go away? Now focus," she commanded.

Tom resisted the urge to reprimand her for daring to order him around. Now wasn't the time; there was plenty of time to teach her in the future. Instead, he determined to pay extra attention to the girl before him. A few moments passed before he felt anything. Once he did feel something, his eyes flew open and he resisted the urge to yank his hand away from hers.

It was unlike anything he had felt before. It was the warm sun on his skin, not sweltering but just enough so that the tips of his nerve endings felt the glow. It was the gentle breeze on a summer day, something that you couldn't see but could _feel_. It was a gentle caress on his flesh, ghosting over his skin and filling something inside of him that he hadn't known was absent. He could feel his own power reacting, yearning and reaching to break free of his control and _consume_ this alien feeling that was dancing around him so freely.

Tom was not naive. He grew up in an orphanage that housed every age; from newborns to almost adults. He had been introduced to the differences between men and women at a very young age when he had had the displeasure of walking in on a tryst while grabbing a broom from one of the closets. Though he was just shy of ten years old, he often returned to the feeling that the sight had invoked in him and found that he was experiencing a similar sensation now. His eyes now open, he took a moment to consider Hermione as a man would a woman.

She was pretty enough, Tom supposed. She still had a roundness about her that most kids(who weren't raised in an orphanage, that is) had, but Tom suspected she would soon grow out of that. Her skin was rather nice looking, smooth and pale that only those of status could achieve. Her nose was proportioned well with the rest of her face and her lips were full and pink. Tom had never cared for brown eyes but Hermione's were lighter than most, and bright with intelligence.

"Do you feel it?" Hermione whispered, breaking through Tom's musings. He almost startled, so consumed in his observations that he had almost forgot she was a real person and not some life-sized doll designed for Tom's amusement.

A dark idea formed in Tom's mind, and small smirk formed on his lips. "Yes," he replied. There was a split second of silence before Tom yanked on the hand that was entwined in his. The girl's eyes snapped open and she let out a small sound of surprise as the space between them closed rapidly. They were inches away from each other now, and Tom could smell the light, sweet scent of what must be the soap she used. It was with a dark glee that he watched a blush form on her pale cheeks, satisfied that he was invoking a physical response from the young girl.

"I can feel your magic, Hermione," Tom told her quietly, locking eyes with her. He could tell that she was like the animals that he manipulated, unable to look away from him, even if they wanted to. "It's very pure," that was a good word for it, Tom decided, "Very light. Would you like to feel mine?" He asked, though really the question was a formality. He was going to show her whether she liked it or not.

The darkness inside of him purred with pleasure when the girl did nothing to resist him, instead simply nodding and closing her eyes. It pleased him to see her submit so easily.

He let go of the grip he had been holding on his power, letting it wash over her like a wave. It reacted to her magic that was already in the air, entrapping and latching onto it, desperate for its warmth. After a few moments, Tom became aware that she was distressed; her magic began trying to pull away from his. For a moment Tom pictured his magic taking physical form as glass shards, slicing at her delicate skin. But that wasn't what Tom wanted; he didn't want to hurt her, at least not yet. He wanted to make her feel the way she had made him feel; warm and slightly aroused.

He wondered if she had any idea how men and women fit together. He suspected not; girls of her class were locked away and shuttered up tight. Perhaps he'd give her her first glimpse.

Focusing on the spark of arousal he felt, he worked to channel that feeling into his powers. He imagined his magic as the tip of his tongue, gliding up the skin of her arm to her neck before latching onto the flesh there. He imagined breathing on her pale expanse of flawless skin, feeling her shiver at the sensation.

Hermione's eyes flew open and Tom saw the delicious fear in them. Fear, but something else also. The blush that had appeared on her cheeks earlier had spread, encompassing her whole face and the part of her chest that wasn't covered by the material of her dress. She ripped her hand out of his, fleeing from his presence; all concern over the stupid stain gone from her mind. Tom watched as she scurried away, grabbing her bag of precious books before she launched herself over the fence he had had to help her over earlier. Tom suspected that she had used some magic to do so as all it took was one jump and she was over the metal divider, though she cut herself on the sharp peaks.

It pleased Tom to watch her flee from him like a mouse would a snake. He watched her until she disappeared around the corner they had come from before he bent to pick up the books she had given him earlier. He opened up the cover of one and came face to face with Hermione's small, tidy handwriting, depicting her home address. She lived in Northamptonshire, not terribly far from London. Interesting.

Books gathered in his arms, he made his way around the building, returning to the front. He hesitated at the corner of the building, seeing Hermione and her parents there. Her mother looked predictably affronted by the state of her clothing, but there were no chastising words that followed. Tom had a feeling that Hermione's family was a perfectly _lovely_ ensemble, and that her parents had an affectionate marriage. The man that he assumed was Hermione's father took her shoulder and led her gently to the car, as if afraid that a cut on her knee would cause Hermione to shatter into pieces. Tom doubted it.

Tom continued to watch them as they loaded inside the vehicle, willing Hermione to lift her eyes to meet his own. As if she had heard him, she did just that. She seemed to flinch as she looked at him, and Tom felt himself smile. He lifted his arm to wave goodbye.

Hermione broke their eye contact, looking down at her lap. Tom could almost sense her shame and confusion through the large expanse of air between them. He watched as the car pulled out of the driveway and continued down the street. It was as he watched the car drive away that Tom came to a conclusion that was as serious as it was irrevocable.

Tom had always liked collecting things; trinkets from his fellow orphans, items he pick pocketed from men and women on the street. Growing up in an orphanage, he never had any personal items that were _his_ and his alone. When he took things, he gained something he couldn't name.

Hermione would be _his,_ he decided.

 **. ... .**

 **A/N:**

 **Hopefully see you all next time!**


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